Whipping Boy
by iyaorisha
Summary: Angsty S & M encounter between Spike and Wesley when the newly-ensouled vampire heads to Angel's after his return from Africa


Title: Whipping Boy  
  
By iyaorisha  
  
Timing: AU S7 BtVS and AU S4 AtS  
  
Pairings: Spike/Wesley  
  
Summary: Angsty S & M encounter between Spike and Wesley when the newly-ensouled vampire heads to Angel's after his return from Africa.   
  
Rating/Warnings: R for violence, language, and M/M sexual situations.  
  
Spoilers: BtVS S6 and AtS S4.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS or AtS characters or the world they inhabit belong to me. They belong to Joss and I promise to put them back when I'm done playing with them.   
  
Author's Note: This fic wrote itself while I was stuck on the Metro for two hours after some dolt drove his car onto the tracks.  
  
***  
  
When I finally slip from the cargo plane's hold at 4 AM, I tell myself it's the need from shelter from the coming sun that leads me to the Hyperion. It's a piss poor excuse. I have a half-dozen places to hole up in L.A. and Angel knows it. But he'll take me in anyway; he has to, we're...family.  
  
But, when I enter the hotel from the sewer access tunnel, he's not there to welcome me begrudgingly. The place is empty, all two hundred rooms of it. Not truly empty, of course. The furnishings are still there and I can hear and smell the vermin in the walls. It's the people that are missing. Angel and his pet mortals all gone. I figure something big is going down and decide to make myself at home.  
  
I help myself to a couple bags of pigs' blood and a half-opened box of Orange Pims that must belong to Wesley because Angel can't stand soft biscuits. With the edge off my hunger, other desires rear their heads. Only one is likely to be satisfied immediately. From the smell -a whiff of good Irish whiskey and leather- it's obvious which room is his. Immaculate as usual. I strip and throw back the bedcovers. It faintly registers that there is a layer of dust on the pillows, but the sun is up now and I'm utterly knackered. I sleep.  
  
  
  
***  
  
Sunset comes. I wake and know that I'm still alone. I pull on my jeans, head downstairs in search of breakfast and an explanation. The answering machine light blinks flirtatiously. I push the play button as I microwave a mug of blood for breakfast.  
  
Hmm, thirty messages. The humans Gunn and Fred left all of them. They're looking for Cordy, Angel, Connor. Anybody. The last plea is from the girl. Mere weeks ago, I might have savored the note of hysteria in her voice. Now, I worry it's contagious.  
  
Where is Angel?  
  
Who's Connor?  
  
***  
  
Another day passes.   
  
The bloody phone rings nonstop. The digital counter on the machine reaches 99. I watch it roll over to 01 and keep going. Eventually, Fred stops leaving messages, but not before I start gnawing at my thumbnail.  
  
I hide in an empty room when the humans enter the hotel. Their voices are pitched low as they arguing. He wants to go after someone named Justine. She starts to cry. Her sobs are cut short and replaced by a gasp of pleasure. There is a single set of footsteps as he carries her into the room next door.  
  
Their coupling is quick and hard. Maybe joyless, though she does call out. Afterwards, they dress in silence. He asks her something. She balks. First, he pleads, then grows angry. The door slams. For a few seconds, there is silence. Then she runs after him. Promising not to call Wesley.  
  
Wesley.  
  
***  
  
For a week, I follow him. In my long unlife, I've seen a lot and nothing about sex should surprise me anymore. But spying on Wesley sends a bloody shock to my system. He's working his way through LA's S&M underground. It's not just the switch from tweed to leather, sherry to Scotch that astonishes me. Humans, even the most masochistic ones, can't take that level of abuse for long without stopping to heal.   
  
Shortly before dawn on Saturday, it happens. The man he's bent on taking home has a partner waiting outside. Turns out they planned on sharing him (no doubt with a bit of sorting out for afters.) Wes balks and they insist with their fists.   
  
I've always taken the Watcher for a soft-lad, but he holds his own. Only when the blade appears, do I step forward. Letting my face change, I swing the larger man around. He gives me the once over and grins. I grin too when my fist makes something splinter in his nose. There is a satisfying yelp and he collapses. I turn around, but there is no sign of his companion. Only Wes staring at me with dismay. "Ran?" I ask. He nods and starts to walk away. Not such much as a thank you.  
  
"Rough trade, Wesley?" I smirk. "Does Angel know?"  
  
He turns around and I fall silent.   
  
He's taller than my Grandsire, but leaner. Rangy almost. Not unattractive if you like scruff. That's not why I stare.  
  
At his throat, not quite lost in the stubble, there a new scar. Long and thin, really almost a wound still since it's so pink and tender. Someone slit his throat. And he survived.  
  
He sees me staring and for a half a second, his hand instinctively rises. I'm not sure if he meant to protect his throat or cover the scar. Either way, he catches himself and even tilts his head back a little. A challenge burns in his eyes: Ask.  
  
I ignore it.  
  
"You're searching for pain." I say. "Only you're looking on the wrong side of it."  
  
The ex-Watcher's eyes narrow. "Perhaps.""  
  
More than a century ago, I swore I'd never let Angelus touch me that way again. Now I was about to offer my body for abuse by a mortal. It was that or send Wesley back out into L.A.'s worst leather bars to be raped half to death. Bloody soul.  
  
"I'm not Angel. But maybe I'll do."  
  
He nods. "Maybe you'll do."  
  
***  
  
At his apartment, he wouldn't make the first move, so I skin my t-shirt over my head. And then I stand there as his eyes scrape across my torso.  
  
Even the worst of my wounds have long healed, so he's looking at a blank canvas. I unbuckle my belt. Not feeding has dropped ten pounds from my frame. Without the belt, my jeans slide to the floor. Bare-arsed, of course. Never took up knickers again after the first time Angelus ripped them off me. I bend and unlace first one boot then the other. Then, there's nothing else to remove.   
  
The Englishman's heated stare make me rise instantly.   
  
"Your turn."  
  
"No." he says. And, with that one simple word, we both know that he's taking control.  
  
I let Wesley push me against the wall. It's cold against my arse and the long, strong fingers ghosting over my cock are burning hot. I groan at the contrast.   
  
I slide down and press my mouth at the straining fabric of his trousers. Heat and hardness drown out any last reservations. I run my tongue along the ridge of his sex. Wes shudders. I know how easy it would be to turn the tables. He's so rapable, it's a good thing Peaches has a conscience these days. The thought of my Grandsire pounding Wesley's flesh excites me and I'm briefly torn between desire and guilt. While I'm wrestling with the soddin' soul, he's undone his fly and I fail to notice. This brings the first blow.  
  
He's not as heavy handed as Angelus. He doesn't have to be. The point isn't damage, just my pain. Even blood isn't necessary, though later, there was that, too.  
  
I can bear this, I think as he enters me dry. No one could hurt me worse than Angelus.  
  
***  
  
Day Two. Maybe I'm wrong.  
  
***  
  
Sunset the third day, he looks me in the eye for the first time since we began. Wesley's voice is still a painful whisper. "Will you tell him?"  
  
I know then that he's done with me. And I'm grateful. My body is raw and aching. I shake my head and he releases me.  
  
I shuck off the manacles and begin rooting around for my jeans. Suddenly, there is a warm hand on my back. Despite myself, I straighten up, caught in something like dread. But Wesley's fingers are soothing, almost caressing. Against my will, I find myself turning into his arms.  
  
For all the scruff, Wesley's mouth is gentle. It tastes like Scotch and my own blood. My cock stirs. There's been no release for me these three days.  
  
"I'm not Angel..." He pauses and swallows.   
  
I close my eyes. "You'll do." 


End file.
